


To the Ruin of All

by Winterstar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BDSM, Bottom Steve Rogers, Dom!Frank - Freeform, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Smut, sub!Steve, top Frank Castle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 20:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16794451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: Frank Castle + Steve Rogers + Dystopia + BDSM = Hot Smut -- That's all you need to know.





	To the Ruin of All

**Author's Note:**

> Well this is the start of my rare pairings stories. I love Frank Castle. I love Steve Rogers. Time to really put them together and see what comes of it.

Steve doesn’t look much at the sun anymore. Logically, he knows it’s not the sun’s fault that the land all around the small settlement is parched, longing for water, for green grass, for some kind of hope. Yet, every time he opens the blinds covering his makeshift window in his trailer and sees the sun in the high orange opal sky, he curses. His mother would be ashamed of him, though she died long before the Scorching. He pulls out the chain around his neck and kisses the cross – the crucifix his mother gave him as she lie dying- before he tucks it back under the t-shirt. 

Walking away from the window with its piercing sun rays and the last remnants of the Scorching that happened nearly a decade ago, Steve picks up the piles of papers on his rickety old wooden desk. He pages through the information, looking for the perimeter schedule for today. Natasha usually places it on top of the daily report but its not there. He throws the papers down and sighs. He just doesn’t want to deal with this now. He wants to pretend he’s still an artist, weighing the possibilities of the next project. Years ago, when he saw colors in the sky like he did this morning, Steve would have grabbed for his pastels or his paints and stood in his bare feet in a kind of fugue creating until he exhausted himself. Now, he needs to get to the perimeter of the settlement and ensure that everything’s in order. If Natasha never reported in with the schedule, then alarms are ringing. 

Pressing his fingers into his eyes, Steve steadies the competing priorities in his head and then drops his hands away. Time to face the music and the morning. He crosses the small room which doubles as his office and the place he lays his head at night – when he can sleep. Who could sleep these days? Even years after the Scorching, the sounds of night thunder and lightning still crashed through the sky. Who knew that the Earth wasn’t a forgiving parent? It seemed during that early time of the Scorching, that Mother Nature herself revolted against the impingement of humans throughout the ecosystems. No one ever predicted that climate change would be a cataclysmic event – a world and an ecology turned upset down in a period of less than a handful of years. 

No time to consider the past, only time to deal with the reality. That is his duty. His obligations compel him, chain him, keep him tethered. He’s not a free man, he’s a man with responsibilities and people’s lives on the line. He has no time for himself, no mercy for himself.

He rummages through the basket near the door and finds his boots under his guard equipment. He slips them on and notices the split in the leather. They won’t last the winter. He’ll need to find a cobbler, new boots are out of the question. No such thing as box stores or the convenience of internet anymore. Life after the Scorching isn’t as convenient or easy as it used to be. Steve shrugs to himself as he adjusts his worn leather jacket. It’s hotter than hell out there, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to burn while he checks on the perimeter stations. He’s used to the heat – but not the unforgiving rays of the sun.

Opening the door he goes into the small open space of his trailer. Not many in the settlement have their own trailer. Sharing is the way of things these days. As the de facto leader of their group, Steve was afforded the luxury of his own trailer. He’d tried to reject it, but the members of their settlement insisted. He only accepted when they gave him one of the smallest trailers. The vestibule area has a small kitchenette jerry-rigged into the corner – just a hot plate and a tiny sink that barely fit a normal sized dish. He rarely uses it since he normally eats with the community or at someone else’s trailer. Most of the members are grateful for his protection. Shaking his head, he climbs out of the trailer that is hitched to a ramshackle Ford F150 that has seen better days. The rust is epic on that thing. He appreciates the colors of the rust. Maybe it is his artist’s eye.

He had been an up and coming superstar in the world of art – then the Scorching happened once the crackpot government finally acknowledged the damage that climate change had done to the economy. They tried to fix it – if fix it meant make it worse. The climate vortexed into a horror show and still the government claimed no responsibility. Then everything fell to pieces, governments toppled as the civilization broke down. City states – Protectorates- ruled the entire world now as far as Steve knew. Around here, up in the mountains close to what little snowcaps still existed, Stark and his crew managed the area. The rich held all the power. The rest of them could go to hell. Or that’s what everyone thought.

Steve tries to keep an open mind. The Stark Protectorate under which his scavenging settlement currently exists seemed to keep to itself, only exacting tolls and taxes when necessary. It is one of the reasons they roam this area, even if the water table is pretty low and the vegetation non-existent. He squints into the sun and pulls out his cap and glasses from his pocket. Used to be a time when he hated sunglasses even with his light eyes. They distorted his artistic sense. He loved to look at colors and shading. Shadows and light. He lived for them – but that was then – this is now. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets and heads toward the first checkpoint. He finds Hawkeye chewing on some creation of jerky that one of the kids in the settlement concocted. It looks like he’s choking to death as he tries to swallow it. The station is actually just a station wagon automobile that looks like it’s from the late 20th century. Clint’s sitting in the bed of the car as the kid – a towhead with dirty fingers and round dark eyes – rattles on with wild gestures. He looks like his shirt came from his father – it’s that big.

“Hey,” Steve says and waves to Clint. 

Clint winks at him and then reaches up to flick on his hearing aids, all the while the kid, who must be around 10 or 12, gabs away about how he caught the lizard that is now part of Hawkeye’s lunch. Steve suppresses his smile as he watches Clint turn on his hearing aid.

“Hey.”

“You see Nat anywhere?” Steve says as the little kid quiets and sheepishly smiles at Steve.

Clint thumbs it behind him. “Next station. They caught a Raider or something poking around last night.”

“No one called me,” Steve says and frowns.

“He didn’t put up much of a fight. Asked if we had coffee,” Clint says with a snort. “Coffee like this is the highlands of Starkdom. Ha!”

“Clint,” Steve hisses. “Stark does all right by us. You know that.” 

Clint quiets and then the boy chimes in, “Cap, you gonna go see him. The Raider and all? You gonna beat him to the moon and back?”

Steve grimaces. He hates that portrayal, but it works to keep the Raiders away. They scare off easily enough if they know there’s a protector in the midst of the settlement. “Well, we’ll see about that. I like to ask questions first. You can’t go beating on people who are innocent.”

The boy jumps out of the bed of the car and hops around while he slams his fist into his cupped hand. Steve remembers doing that as a child – except he wasn’t miming punching someone, he was pretending to play baseball. “I can go with you, Cap. Beat the crap out of him.”

Steve tsks. “Now, what would your Momma say?” 

The boy stops and slumps his shoulders. “To listen to you.”

Steve reaches over and ruffles his hands through the boy’s hair. “Why don’t you go and get Hawkeye here some more of that jerky. I think he really likes it.” 

Clint chokes as the boy beams at him. “Ya do?” Trapped, Clint only nods in reply. The boy dashes off only to turn around and yell back to them, “I gotta lizard I caught the other day drying on the clothes line. Gonna get it and make some more for you! Spice it real good!” He turns and hightails it back to the main encampment. He disappears into the dust of the day.

“God, you’re trying to kill me.” Clint pulls his bag from the back of the vehicle. He takes out a canteen and sips it, being careful with the water. He swallows before he adds, “Nat didn’t think the Raider was all that dangerous.”

Steve glances up at the camp. They should be moving on soon. The underground aquifer that Scott discovered isn’t going to last through the end of the summer. It’s time to move back toward the mountains, get under the skirts of the Protectorate. “I’ll go check it out, all the same. She should have called me.”

“You don’t sleep enough, Cap.”

“Don’t call me that. Being Captain for the Protectorate is like being a captain of nothing. I was an artist before this, you know.” Steve accepts the canteen that Clint offers him. He takes a light swig knowing it isn’t his share of the water.

“So you said,” Clint says and then takes the canteen and screws on the top. “Seems we all have our albatross to bear.”

“You’ve been reading again, Clint.” Steve starts away, but he calls over his shoulder. “Now where will that get you in this day and age?”

Clint cracks a bark of laughter and then sets about using his old pair of binoculars to check the horizon. It’s boiling out and the mirages flitter about the dustbowl and into the distant mountains. Steve keeps aware of his surroundings as he moves through their little town. He needs to check in on Wanda at some point. She hasn’t been the same since her brother died last January. She mainly keeps to herself, but she’s a great cook and still helps out with the little ones when she forces herself out of her small trailer. 

Steve knows how she feels. He lost Bucky more than a year ago. The hole in his chest aches daily and he goes to bed thinking about him. When he wakes up, Bucky is the first word on his lips. Death never leaves. 

When he gets to the next station, Steve finds Natasha inside the trailer. This one is one of their better vehicles. It’s actually an old Airstream RV. Natasha uses it as her home as well as the main perimeter guard station. He knocks on the door as a courtesy more than anything else. He doesn’t wait for her invitation. He opens the door and peeks inside.

“You decent?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Natasha says. She’s standing behind the door but in front of their unwanted visitor so that Steve can’t get a good look from his vantage point outside of the RV. “Get in here and meet the man of the hour.”

Steve swings open the door, grabs the handle on the side of the RV, and hauls himself up and into the trailer. It’s in surprisingly good condition considering the hell they’ve all been through for the last few years. In the front of the trailer there’s bench seating with a table tucked into the U shaped couches. Steve has to admit he’s envious of it. She has a real stovetop and even a refrigerator. Toward the back she has a real mattress that’s queen sized. He can’t remember the last time he slept on a real mattress. He doesn’t begrudge her of it, just wishes he had at least a bed – a real one. 

When he gets into the RV, Natasha moves aside, and leans with her back up against the small counter where the stove burners sit. The Raider sits on a small metal garbage pail that Natasha has turned over for him. He doesn’t look like a usual Raider – more like a man that’s been on the road too long, though it looks like Natasha let him clean up a bit. Steve glances over at the tiny bathroom that’s no bigger than a coffin and sees the warm condensation on the mirror. He also notices the nicks on the man’s jaw. She let him shave. Steve wants to growl at her and he would reprimand her if it was anyone other than Natasha. Letting a Raider have a shave would be dangerous for anyone else – other than Natasha. Yet the man still looks like he’s been dragged through hell. Bruises mar his features, his eyes are hollow and dark. He glares at Steve but then shifts his focus away like meeting his gaze is too much for him after all he’s seen. He’s not the typical Raider – that’s for sure.

“Nat?”

“Meet Frank Castle. He’s not a Raider, but one of the Rangers.”

A Ranger – that’s a new one. While Steve has heard of them, he’s never actually met one. They are rumored to be a vigilante force that roams the country to protect those who cannot protect themselves. It sounds noble in these times, but also foolish and possibly more dangerous to the people they vow to serve. 

Steve notes the split knuckles, the open sores on the man’s hands. He spots the cuts and abrasions on his ear, his neck and his wrists. How many fights had this man been in and how would they confirm he was one of these mysterious Rangers and not a Raider looking for succor after stealing from some innocents along the way. 

“You got any proof of your story?”

Natasha offers an old photograph to Steve. “Here.”

The man, Frank, looks up at Steve. “I just want someplace for some people to land. Family of four. They need somewhere safe. Also a lady. A good one. I need her to be safe.”

Like there is a difference with ladies. Steve eyes Natasha who hasn’t expressed her usually very strong-minded opinion yet. “This your family?” The picture showed a nuclear family – typical. Man, woman, two kids. The definition of a family changed after the Scorching. People huddle in different units now. Frank could be one of the parents in a poly family or an uncle. Who knew?

“Mine’s dead. I’m trying to protect this one,” Frank says. His eyes light up but not with rage or anger, instead with a haunting fear of his own sorrow. It’s clearly written on his face. 

Steve considers the photograph. It’s in tatters, he can’t really see the faces well – as if someone rubbed them with their finger time and again. “Where are they?”

“Not far.” Frank sniffs and rubs at his face. He doesn’t look at Steve. “Look, you gonna help me or no?”

“Maybe,” Steve says and hands the photograph to Frank. “Natasha needs to get back to work. You need something to eat.”

“I ain’t going nowhere with people,” Frank says.

Steve shares a look with Natasha. He addresses Frank. “Lucky you, you can come back to my place and I’ll get you something to eat and we can talk. How about that?”

Frank looks up at him, his eyes imploring and searching. He isn’t a deer in headlights, but a tiger bloodied by the fight. Steve would be stupid to be alone with this man. He steers his wrecked life toward the tiger anyway. “Come on. I can find something like coffee. I’m not promising the best stuff.”

Frank smirks as if he’s finally been understood. He stands up. He’s not quite as tall as Steve. He assesses Steve. “Big guy like you holed up here?” There’s a hint of scorn in his tone. 

Steve ignores it. “You want the fake coffee or not?”

Frank sucks in a breath and glances at Natasha before he agrees. “Lead the way.”

With a weighted stare at Natasha, Steve opens the door to the camper and hops out, followed by Frank. Natasha only winks at him and says, “Don’t you boys get into trouble.”

Steve coughs but Frank doesn’t react. At some point in time, Steve is going to have to deal with Natasha and her attitude. Just what does she think she is pulling? Maybe he’d have Sam go and visit with her. The poor man has a crush a mile wide on Natasha, but she isn’t called the Black Widow for shits and giggles. Maybe Steve should reconsider throwing his best friend to the Widow. 

“How’d you find our encampment?” Steve asks. He doesn’t want to make small talk, but something goads him into it. The man is too quiet, even when walking there’s a stillness to him. 

“You left an easy trail to follow,” Frank replies but doesn’t look at Steve. His eyes scan the horizon, always on alert, always checking for the next threat – or opportunity depending on who this guy really is.

“Raider camps leave trails as well,” Steve remarks and points over to his trailer. He’s not going to give this guy a tour of the settlement, not when Steve can see how his mind works. Frank’s definitely an army guy, ex-soldier Steve would guess. 

“Raiders don’t got toys and not makeshift diapers in their trash.”

Steve has to admit, having children in the camp makes it more difficult to keep things in control and in line. Kids are a wildcard, always will be. But he can’t ask the parents to leave their children behind at the Protectorate, especially if they want to be out here, not under the rules and regulations of the city-state. Though the opportunities out on the Freelands are few and rare they still do offer more than what has to be limited in the Protectorate. Resources are scarce and Stark works everyday to ensure there’s fair distribution, that’s one of the only reasons that Steve keeps his camp under the Protectorate’s umbrella. Otherwise he’d find somewhere else, somewhere new. 

“So, you found us. What are you going to do? Cut our throats when it’s dark and run away with our lizard jerky?” Steve asks. Scavenging this season hasn’t seen much in the way of products. They were able to find a few precious items from an ancient typewriter to an old VCR player. The Stark Protectorate pays good resources for any type of technology. When the scavenging season is over and they have to head back to the mountains to winter, they should be well set up for the stretch of bad weather coming along.

Frank snaps at him, “I don’t kill kids. That’s not what I do. I’m not a Raider.”

The seething anger rings true to Steve’s ears. “Well, that’s good to hear. I don’t want to have to kill you either.” They approach Steve’s trailer. “What do you really want? Fuel?” Steve gestures without taking his hands out of his pockets. “We don’t have any. Not what your routine bike or car runs on. Stark’s outfitted most of the caravans with his own tech. We run on his tech.”

“Easy way to keep you under his thumb.” Frank’s eyes are motes that beckon toward danger. Even in the light of day, they are quiet and night and shadows. 

“If you say so,” Steve replies. He’d often considered the same proposition. Even confronted Stark on the very nature of their agreement. Stark only laughed and asked Steve if he had anything else to offer. He hadn’t. It was a good deal. Steve knew it was. He turned his attention to his visitor. “You can leave now or you can come inside and give me the details of this family.”

Frank stands still, his eyes skitter but then settle on Steve. The gaze peels away the layers of protection Steve built over the year since he’d lost Bucky, peels them away like flaying his skin until he wants to drop down and -. He coughs and waves for Frank to follow him. 

“Come on,” Steve says and opens up his trailer. Frank doesn’t say a word as they enter through the vestibule to the old single room of his flatbed trailer. 

Steve pulls off the leather jacket and cap then tosses his sunglasses on the desk. Steve goes out to the vestibule to his hot plate and fixes the ‘coffee’. He uses that term liberally. While he might have some privileges with the Protectorate as one of their Captains, he doesn’t really have coffee. It’s a mash of something else. Scott’s the chemist – he knows what it is. It hasn’t killed Steve yet, so he figures it’s not poisonous. He opens the small cabinet that the hot plate rests on to get two chipped mugs. He’s lucky has a second mug. Pouring the dark liquid, he smiles. The aroma is almost coffee – but not quite. What the hell it is – is anyone’s guess.

Going back to the main room of the trailer, he places it on the table next to the chair. “Go ahead, try it.” Steve sips it and feels like he’s in Nirvana – it’s better as you get used to it.

Frank takes a gulp, stops, swallows (loudly), and then gags as he opens his mouth and retches. “What the hell is that? Are you trying to kill me, you fucker.”

“Wow, great language there,” Steve says and raises his mug to drink again. “You get used to it.”

Frank sniffs and puts the mug on the table. He hasn’t taken the chair. He stands at parade rest. Very military. Very ex-military. He stares straight ahead as if he waits for Steve to evaluate him. It gives Steve the creeps. He decides to address it with companionship.

“I was in the military for a while too, so I get it.”

That gets Frank’s attention. His expression changes, almost like he’s sorry to hear that Steve’s been polluted. Steve frowns because the ground where he tread falters. “I joined up during the First Marauders’ War.”

Frank grimaces. “So you had family that died?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I thought it was my duty to help.” After the Scorching – looting and rioting happened, of course, because humans have a tendency to ravage each other when they get the opportunity. It makes him uncomfortable to see how Frank reacts. Part of him wants to impress Frank and that makes his nerves jitter. This man is a stranger, possibly an imposter. Yet, Steve’s palms sweat and he keeps staring at the scars on the man’s hands wondering how they might feel running over his bare skin. He clears his throat attempting to remove the images from popping up in his mind.

“Duty,” Frank says and for a minute Steve can’t figure out what he’s talking about until he gets back to the thread of the conversation. “Whose duty? Yours or someone up on a hill somewhere?”

That’s a direct dig on their status, again. “We do what we have to do to survive.”

“That’s what you tell yourself. That’s what we all tell ourselves.” Frank relaxes a degree, as much as a tiger might let down his guard. He walks a few paces and the small room vibrates with his booted steps. Steve tries to ignore the fact that something inside of him resonates with the fury emanating off the man. “I told myself the same thing. Told myself the duty was on my shoulders. I was strong enough to help others. Fuck.” He stops and the rage roils through the room. It’s like a flash fire, surprising and dangerous. He marches toward Steve’s desk, pounds on it once. “Duty. Whose duty? Do they even care what happens to us?”

Steve stays silent as the heat in the room boils and he sees the tendons of Frank’s neck stand out. 

“You’re doing your duty out here in the Freelands. What’s free about it? What?” Frank slams down on the desk again and the pencils roll off the sides. 

“It’s about survival, Frank,” Steve says lowly. Approaching the hungry tiger isn’t an easy task. “Sure the whole set up for society – what we have of it – isn’t ideal-.”

“Ideal?” Frank turns around and glares at Steve. This isn’t an angry expression but one of defeat and pain. “What’s left for us? What’s left for the little guy? You’re sitting here waiting for the next attack. But what are you doing to change it?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said and crossed his arms over his chest. He’s not falling into the trap of debating their status and what he chooses to do with his life. “Want to tell me why you’re here instead of grilling me on what you think about our lives?” 

The passion beating off of the Ranger throbbed through the room. Steve wanted him out. Every nerve in his body told him that this man was a danger, jeopardizing his life. Maybe even the camp’s existence. Yet at the same time something deep seeded calls to him. The energy vibrating off the man disturbs Steve in ways he doesn’t want to admit. It awakes hidden desires, buried along time ago. Frank’s rage originates from loss and, for that reason, Steve can empathize with him, can understand him, even feel for him.

“Told you already. I want a safe harbor. This is it. This fucked up place is all I can find,” Frank admits and something crestfallen mars his already marked face. Steve wonders how it would be if something lovely and tender touched that face, would the haunted look fade?

He shakes away the thoughts and gets back to the task at hand. “How do you propose to contribute to our community, by beating the crap out of people?” Steve waves to Frank’s split knuckles.

“You might need someone to give a beating once in a while. Not sure you know how, considering.” Frank keeps his chin up, daring Steve.

“I’m a Protectorate Captain. You can’t scare me. You sure as hell can’t frighten me to let you join us,” Steve hits back.

Frank moves, circling around Steve – the tiger assessing its prey. “Captain of what? You sit here sending out your people to scavenge the world so that you can buy into the Protectorate. If you got off your ass and fought back maybe the people sitting in their high castles might come down and help.”

“You don’t know anything about it. You don’t know anything about how our Protectorate works. It’s ours. Stark might sit in the Tower, but we own the Protectorate. This is our lives, our safety,” Steve says. He knows he’s stretching the truth a little, but he doesn’t care. Officially, Stark owns the Protectorate – he has to – that’s the way the world works now. But it is a community effort all around – that and what Steve’s offered over the years for Stark. It works. 

“You keep telling yourself that _Captain_ ,” Frank sneers. “This ain’t no palace. You look at what you’re living in? A trailer. Where’s he?”

Steve wants to say probably in the basement cave he uses as a laboratory to keep the Protectorate functioning. Instead, he says, “I’m not here to debate our reliance on a Protectorate. You’re sounding more and more like a Raider and less than a Ranger to me.”

Frank lurches at him. “Raiders fucking killed my family.” He seizes Steve’s shirt collar and twists it. “You think you know it all, that this is the way to go. Protectorates don’t protect fuck. You understand that. You’re sitting ducks out here. While up in the mountains the Protectorates sit pretty and safe, leaving the scraps for us!”

Steve clasps Frank’s fists, trying to extricate himself from the man’s grasp. “Not all Protectorates are the same.” He doesn’t know why he’s shielding Stark; it’s not like they get along or are friendly. Steve’s done what he’s had to do to help his people. Stark’s the best Protectorate they got and that’s the truth. “You’ll get nothing like this Castle.”

“Won’t I?” Frank says and his nostrils flare. He’s nose to nose with Steve, his hot breath pours over Steve. It stimulates some hibernating part of Steve so that he bites back the need to sigh, forcibly stills his body from shuddering because of the power, the need, the anger mixed in with dark desire.

“Try me,” Steve hisses back. He won’t give in to Frank, because he can’t. This is life and death. Everything these days is life and death. A simple decision about where someone might want to take a shit is life and death these days. 

Frank advances, his fists constrict Steve’s collar until the fabric becomes a rope and strangles. Steve refuses to back down. He shoves forward a little but he’s hobbled by his increasing arousal. Embarrassed by it really. Bucky had known about Steve’s tendencies, about his needs. He begrudgingly fulfilled them while they were a couple. But everything goes red in color in the room, red with rage fused with desire for Steve. 

Any second Steve’s going to lose his control, he’s going to fall down to his knees and beg, become the submissive he suppresses every damned day. He strikes out, the only way to hide his tendency. He brings a fist around, trying to hit Frank to get him off. Unfortunately, he telegraphs the punch and Frank easily dodges it, swings around and gets Steve in a chokehold. Steve gets both of his hands on Frank’s arms, notices the hair interrupted by scars that scroll up his forearms. The roughness, the abraded flesh heightens Steve’s longing. He swallows down against the impinging arm.

“Fuck you,” Steve snaps and uses the arm around his throat as leverage. He can’t flip the Ranger, since the trailer’s ceiling is too low, but he can spin and crash against the inner wall. He attempts the maneuver but Frank, though shorter than Steve, feels more like a wall. He resists Steve’s move and then whispers in his ear with hot breath, “I can kill you right here. Snap your neck. Take over this camp. Kill that pretty little red head. What do you say Captain?”

“Go to hell,” Steve growls and then gathers his strength and slams backward. It’s not enough to get him to the wall but it’s enough to topple them over to the floor. They hit hard. The air escapes Steve’s lungs and he gulps for what he can considering the arm choking him hasn’t released him. Frank scrambles and climbs on top of Steve before he reacts.It allows Steve to get a breath, a lungful of air. Pushing up with his booted feet Steve tries to dislodge Frank, but his opponent reads his move again and rides his attempt easily and then lands firmly on Steve’s groin. With a groan, Steve bends upward to punch him, but Frank holds him at the shoulders and then leans down.

He whispers into Steve’s ear. “Kill or fuck? Which do you want?” Steve cannot stop it. His cock grows hard and whatever blood’s left heats his face. Frank stares down at him, his hand shifts to his throat only to cause Steve’s erection to harden further. His body shivers in response. Frank squeezes and Steve sees his pupils widened and darken. His cheeks are red with desire as well. 

Frank tightens his grip on Steve’s throat and the lights flash in his visual field, the periphery darkens even as he jerks his hips. He licks his lips and Frank eases up until Steve can breathe again. He wants to beg. It’s what he does. He can manage a moan and then he says, “Please.”

Frank doesn’t insult him or treat him with derision which is what he expects. Instead, he gets off Steve and commands, “Get your clothes off.” 

Without a word at the turn of events, Steve sits up and tugs off his shirt. He pulls off his tattered boots and slips off his worn jeans. Frank goes to the door and works the lock. When he turns around, his eyes fall to Steve’s heavy erection as he kneels before the Ranger. “What do you got?”

“Homemade lube in the lower drawer of the desk. Old dildo if you want to use it there too.”

“Anything else?” Frank says as he goes to the desk and pulls out the lube and the obscenely large green dildo. 

Steve looks away and says, “Top drawer, cuffs.” Those are the handcuffs he uses when they do happen upon a Raider and take the person into custody for the Protectorate’s justice. They use them infrequently but they do come in handy.

Frank retrieves them with the key without comment. When he approaches, Frank touches Steve’s chin in a tender almost revered manner. He doesn’t speak. He opens his jeans to reveal a thick bundle of hair, then he releases his cock. It’s half hard. He waits for Steve.

Shuffling on his knees, Steve smells the heavy musk of the man, the tip of his cock opens, drips and part of Steve wants to drop to all fours and open up. He follows the unspoken command and tastes the head of Frank’s cock. He teases the hood, poking his tongue along it and then he slides his mouth around the cock. Hands on Frank’s hips he allows the weight and length (which belies his height). He wants it all, but he doesn’t want it to go too fast. He suckles at the cock, delirious with the pungent taste, the presence of it on his tongue. Frank’s hands rub back and forth along Steve’s head. It lulls Steve and he uses that feeling to sink further into his space of delirious happiness, something so rare these days. As he runs his tongue up and down, as he lets go of his cock and takes the balls in his mouth swirling his tongue through the hair, then back to the cock again, Steve glories in the smells, the tastes, the submission of his body to this stranger. 

Frank pumps into Steve’s mouth, not hard but enough to push against the back of his throat. It doesn’t gag Steve. It’s like Frank’s testing him, seeing his limits. What he wants. Frank pushes and then rubs his hard cock against the back of Steve’s throat. He judders in response, his eyes rolling up and then his lids closing. He wants so much more. Frank pulls out and Steve slumps down, disappointed. The man is probably going to kill him now. Laugh at him and kill him.

“Take off my clothes,” Frank states. It isn’t a growl like Steve expects but a kind of request. Steve goes to stand up, but Frank puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him down. “You don’t get to stand unless I say. You are always on your knees, understand Pup?”

Steve nods and then goes back to his knees. He doesn’t ask about the odd term of endearment, because he intuitively knows Frank commands silence. Frank leans down so that Steve can pull his shirt over his head, then when he stands back up, Steve goes to his boots and unties them. As Frank balances against the desk, Steve pulls off each boot. 

Steve wants desperately to jerk off right now. How long has it been since he could forget about everything and just be – be himself. Years. Bucky’s been gone for over a year, feels like thirty. He stops himself from touching his cock and removes Frank’s belt. When he goes to toss it aside, Frank takes it out of his hand and lays it on the desk along with the other items. This small motion sets Steve on fire. He gets Frank’s pants off. Now they are on equal terms. But not. 

Frank leaves Steve on his knees and rounds the desk. He opens the drawers, takes his time hunting through the articles. A ball of thin rope. A stapler. A knife. Steve concentrates on the knife. This is it. He’s going to fuck him and then kill him. Steve doesn’t stop him, doesn’t move. He’s going to let this play out – either way. He’s playing with fire and relishing the thought of getting burned.

Frank picks up the ball of thin rope. “Get on your back.”

Steve lays down on the bedding on the floor. It’s nothing particularly comfortable, but it’s better than the steel of the trailer (too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter). Frank allows it. He comes over to the blankets and then kneels as Steve lies there, not speaking, not moving, his body like a live wire crackling with the need to go to ground. Frank opens Steve’s legs and rubs a callused hand along his cock. Steve almost loses it, but Frank pinches the root of his erection.

“You don’t come. Not now, not until I say.” He goes to work then, using the rope tying off Steve’s balls just enough to allow circulation but not enough to allow them to tuck up to his body for Steve comes. He finishes by anchoring the stapler to the rope as he ties off Steve’s cock. If Steve gets on his knees, the stapler will hang like a pendulum and drag his testicles away from his body, painfully. Steve moans. He wants it so much he feels tears forming in his eyes.

“Oh Pup,” Frank whispers and then hovers over him. “Don’t cry.” He kisses Steve’s eyes, tasting the tears. The roughness of Frank’s face, his scars sends a thrill through Steve. Frank gets up and goes to the desk, retrieving the cuffs. “Now, do what you want. I know what you want.” Frank’s voice is surprisingly soft.

Steve gets to his knees, then on all fours with his ass to Frank. The stapler hangs. It hurts and Steve grits his teeth through the pain. His cock jumps at the sensation. He loves it.

Frank snaps on the cuffs around Steve’s wrists but also linking him to the leg of the desk. It means the Frank had to pull them partially off of the blankets, but Steve doesn’t care. He wants to feel the pain, the hot steal is just another part of it. Frank stops and assesses, staring at Steve cuffed to the desk, his legs perversely open with his hole aching for more. Frank leans down and gives the stapler a little push so that it swings. Steve groans and cries out.

“Not that.” Frank picks up the green dildo and his belt. 

No. Steve doesn’t want the dildo. He wants Frank’s absurdly large dick. “Don’t worry, Pup.” Frank takes the dildo and says, “Open.”

For a minute, Steve’s not sure what the hell he’s talking about but then he taps Steve’s lips with the dildo and it falls into place. He opens his mouth and Frank slides the dildo into place, then wraps the belt around his mouth and face, buckling it into place after he makes a new hole in the belt with the knife.

Steve can’t breathe around the dildo and belt. He has to breathe only through his nostrils. He grunts and it comes out muffled and low.

“I want you to scream when it hurts,” Frank says. “I want everyone to hear it. I want to feel in it what’s left of my fucked up soul.”

Steve stays, paralyzed by the sensations – the long dildo gagging him, the swing of the weight on his balls and cock, the cuffs cutting into his wrists. He waits as Frank audibly inhales and exhales behind him, then Steve hears the shuffle of the Ranger getting on his knees behind him. He leans forward and places his hands on Steve’s ass. He strokes over the curvature of his ass cheeks and then plays with Steve’s tortured balls. Steve whines around the gag. It hurts so much, so damned much that hot tears come to his eyes. Frank chuckles but it sounds more like a snarl. 

“That’s it. That’s it. You like it, you bastard,” Frank says and then he bends over Steve’s ass and licks, dragging his tongue along the crack, lapping at his hole. Steve squeezes his eyes closed and tightens his fists. He doesn’t want to scream, he doesn’t want to make a noise even though Frank told him to, commanded his compliance. All of his submissive tendencies yearn to follow orders. He groans around the gag again.

Frank encourages him by slipping his tongue inward and Steve can’t control himself – he falls into his submissive space and cries out over the gag. It’s probably not loud enough for anyone to hear outside of the trailer, and if they do they might just think that Steve’s being murdered. He is. In a way. The little pieces of him still surviving this world shatter and he opens his legs farther inviting the stranger to use him. Frank takes his time, tasting Steve, lapping at his strained testicles and the root of his cock. 

Drool drips around Steve’s mouth as he feels the tiny bit of semen escape the constraints around his cock. Steve yells out again, just trying to relieve some of the pent up strain, but it doesn’t work. His arms shake, his body quakes. 

Frank moves away from his ministrations and Steve hangs his head. Spittle pools on the floor and he bites at the dildo several times. His shame increases as he muses about using the dildo on himself in the long hot days of summer, shoving it in and trying for pain but always only getting pleasure. 

Now it is different. Now, the pain swirls around with the pleasure like a corrupted dance. The lid of the jar with lube opens and Frank tosses the tin lid on the floor. It’s a mixture of different oils. He’d had Scott mix it up for him with some odd reasoning, telling him it had to be organic and biodegradable. It works well enough. Frank breaches him with two blunt fingers, not being easy or nice. Steve cringes and tightens, but Frank pets him.

“Open up for me, Pup. Open up.” He tugs a little on the stapler hanging on the string. This sends Steve through to a painful heaven. He heaves against the pain, nearly wanting to choke and retch but the pain is so beautiful and bright that he can’t help but want more of it. If he could command his body to follow Frank’s directions he would, in every aspect. 

More lube is spread on his ass and Frank plunges his thick fingers into Steve, filling him so much that he gnaws at the dildo and his breathing becomes harsh and labored. Frank doesn’t prepare him for long. Maybe he knows, maybe he reads it on Steve, that he longs for the pain, the pain makes life whole in some odd paradoxical ways. 

Frank penetrates him with a long shove of his cock. Steve screams around the gag. It hurts like a spear through him. He pushes back onto it. He wants it. He wants Frank to fuck him. He wants Frank to hold him. He wants to suck him off and take him in all at once. Frank freezes, holding and then with starts to move with wild thrusts. He pounds into Steve grunting with every shocking forward movement. The weight torments Steve, an agony of rhythmic pain and tears leak out of Steve’s eyes to stream down his face. He wants it to happen, but he begs for it to stop. Yet he’s chanting in his head - _more, more, more_.

As he rocks back into Frank the slap of their bodies together echoes in the trailer. Steve bows his head and then spots the cross – his mother’s crucifix swinging down from the chain around his neck. The gold glitters in the sunlight and tears blur Steve’s vision. He never wears it when he fucks. Never. Not when he was with Bucky, not alone by himself in his shameful nights. He never wears it because of his wants and needs are not what a mother would hope for – or wish for her son. Yet there it is, the cross with Christ on it as he gets fucked by a stranger and his body shudders with the thrill of danger and the wanton desires racing through him. He closes his eyes to hide the reality of who he is, to secure the shame away.

Above him, behind him, in him, filling him, Frank rocks with a frantic momentum into him. Steve shakes his head and lifts it, opening his eyes as he stares into the middle distance. The cock in him stuffs him and stretches him beyond his breaking point. He wants to come. He cries and screams out his frustration. It’s muted by the dildo stuck in his mouth. He tries to jerk against the cuffs so he can get to the gag, get it out. He can’t. Frank has him, holds him. 

Frank keeps growling and groaning at Steve. He picks up his pace as he chases his orgasm. Steve tries to deny it, like Frank denies him. But it’s impossible. Frank reaches forward and grabs at the belt buckle. He undoes the belt and pulls it off of Steve’s head. The dildo drops out of his mouth and Steve pants, sucking in air. It doesn’t matter the frustration mounts and he needs to get some satisfaction. Before Steve can say anything Frank slams into him again and then the belt slips over his head to wrap around his neck like a noose. He wants to say no, to safe word out. But they have no safe words, they have no agreements. Yet, when Frank loops it around his throat, when he tightens it, and pulls it like a garrote to steal the air from his lungs, Steve thrills with it. Loves it. He sinks further into his subspace nearly floating on the high. 

Frank holds onto the belt as he pounds into Steve’s ass, as he jerks and thrusts he curls fingers and scratches nails down his back. The belt constricts and Steve fights for air yet at the same time he urges Frank on. His screams out loud now, too loud. If anyone is walking past the trailer, Steve knows that they can hear him. He doesn’t care, he’s way past caring now. He wants it all, he wants to submit, he wants Frank to own him like no one ever has. He’d pleaded with Bucky to own him, to keep him, but it wasn’t in his nature. Frank’s soul, dark and haunted, is perfect. He’s dangerous and puts everything that Steve holds dear in jeopardy, but Steve will acquiesce, will lay down his body for Frank to keep everyone else safe. He will walk on the edge and fall over into the abyss. He will be Frank’s toy and let him use him, abuse him. He wants it all.

The scream turns into a gurgle as the belt cuts off his windpipe. His cock strains against the tortured bonds and weight. His orgasm throbs, trying but failing to break free. Frank slaps him, hard across the ass, and then yanks the belt until Steve is half way up. He can’t go any farther because of the cuffs. Frank reaches and snatches at Steve’s hair, holding on to bring new tears to Steve’s eyes. 

Some kind of fugue comes over Steve as Frank groans and says, “You’re mine. You get that? You understand that? You see me, when I come to you, you get on your knees to me. You’re mine. You lick me clean. You wait on me. You service me and no one else. You don’t go to Stark and lick his boots. You come to me.”

Steve shouldn’t agree. The whole community depends on him, but he’s deprived himself for so long and he’s so deep into the scene and the moment that rational thought is but a memory of yesterday. He cries out, “Yes, yes. All yours, all yours.”

Frank releases his hair and then gives the belt one last snap so that the world grays out as Steve feels the hot spill of come in his ass. Frank moans and hisses as he comes. He damns Steve. “Never. You fuck. You did this to me.”

Darkness comes over him as the last of his air is taken. Steve feels himself collapsing with only the belt and a strong arm keeping him on his knees. He’s not sure how long he’s out, how very dangerously close he came to death’s cliff. He blinks his eyes and finds himself on the pile of blankets, his cock still hot with need and his body shaking with want. Frank has freed his wrist from the cuffs but not his throat from the belt, though he has loosened it. He sits there on the floor staring down at Steve. Lightly he strokes his hands down Steve’s torso to his aching cock. Even the lightest touch startles and hurts. Steve whines when Frank touches him. 

“You do everything for them. All the time. Don’t you,” Frank asks but when Steve goes to answer, he tightens the belt. “No. You don’t talk.” He gazes at Steve, teases his cock with a flick to it. “All the time, you deny yourself everything. From food to water to family to freedom. You give over everything to them.”

Steve tries to look away because he doesn’t like to hear the truth. Frank won’t allow it. He turns Steve to face him. 

“They take everything and leave you empty. All you can do is this. Who else do you let fuck you? Do you sell yourself to Stark so that he gives your family this protection? Who else do you have to fuck?” 

Steve doesn’t answer. None of this is Frank’s issue or his business. He swallows against the belt but at the same time longs for it to rob him of his awareness again, to make the pain in his groin increase until he can’t take it anymore and begs for release, until it robs him of his awareness. Frank seems to understand him without words. 

Slowly he slips the belt off and throws it to the side. Steve wants to cry when he does, but Frank only smiles. “I’m gonna take care of you.” He puts his hands around Steve’s throat. “Gonna give you that relief.” 

Steve can fight back. His arms are free. He could stop Frank, but he lies there and lets him. He drops his head back and exposes his throat asking silently for it. Frank wraps his scarred hands around Steve’s throat. The calluses feel like every promise of tomorrow. He shudders as Frank grips his throat, grasping away the air. Steve opens eyes he didn’t know he’d closed, focusing on Frank. His visual field shadows and darkens and the agony in his groin explodes as Frank takes one of his hands away and tugs on his tormented cock. Steve yells out, jerking and lurching until his body can’t stand the battle, until the fight for air overcomes him. He drops again to darkness and then wakes only to find Frank with the knife in hand over his cock. 

Frank touches Steve with the knife, not slicing but allowing the cool steel against the flesh of his hot cock. Steve hisses. He can stop him now, but he doesn’t. Instead he drops his legs open and lets Frank do what he wants. The belt goes around his neck again and tightens a third time. Frank takes the knife to cut as everything blackens in the room when Steve’s robbed of air again. He comes back only because of the urgency of pain. Steve screams as the agony bursts out from his groin when Frank releases his cock and balls from the rope. His orgasm is pure and deep pain. There’s little to no pleasure but Steve rides through it, tears stream down his face and he quakes as the agony turns into a warm seeded ecstasy. 

When he finally settles, when his wrecked body pieces itself back together again, he’s lying with his head in Frank’s lap. The Ranger whispers, “I’m gonna ruin you.”

Steve cannot see the lie in it so he doesn’t deny the truth of it. He desperately wants Frank to kiss him. But he says nothing, does nothing as his body lies limp and secure. Frank pets a hand down Steve’s cheek. “You do what I say.” Frank’s words are soft, almost pleading. “Do what I say.”

This is their unwritten contract, Steve knows it in his soul. They are forming an agreement. Right now. 

“Thing is,” Frank says and he looks away. From the color of his cheeks and the way he avoids Steve’s direct gaze, he knows it is going to cross the line. Something is coming. “You can’t.” Frank stops again. “You can’t bug out. You know? You gotta stay with it. You can’t bug out and say stop or no. Or what do they call it?”

Steve supplies the word, “Safe word.”

“Yeah, you can’t. I gotta know you trust me to stop without saying it. I gotta know someone fucking trusts me.”

He has no right to ask this of Steve. Hell they only just met less than an hour ago. But Steve agrees, because he has to know that something is real, and something is worth it, and that something is all his. “Yes.” He knows he’s sealed his fate, but he doesn’t much care. Right now he feels tender and soft inside. The luxury of submission suffuses through him. 

From outside there’s a knock on the door. Steve jerks and then blushes. How much was heard? What did the rest of the camp think? Jesus. He lifts his head to get the door, but Frank pushes him down. The Ranger struggles to his feet and then unlock and opens the inner door. He keeps it cracked so that no one can see Steve, but whomever is at the door can surely glimpse Frank’s naked body.

“Yeah?”

“Is Steve around?”

That’s Sam’s voice. Steve closes his eyes. Sam will never approve.

“He’s resting. Who’s asking?”

“Tell him that we got to talk about supplies.” Sam stops talking and must take in what he’s seeing because he adds, “When he gets a chance. No rush or nothing.”

Frank only grunts at him and then closes the door. Turning, he grabs his pants. He starts to dress and Steve figures this is it. His brief respite is over. He sits up and reaches for his shirt. Frank steps on his hand. “Not you.” 

Steve stops and regards Frank. It’s at this moment he needs to decide if he’s going to play it out, or jump ship. It’s an easy decision. He pulls his hand away and waits. Frank goes to the chair at the desk and pulls out an old paperback book Steve has read a million times. “Come.”

Steve grits his teeth. He’s not sure about this. He hasn’t played this type of submissive, only in a scene. But he promised to trust Frank. So he goes to his side and Frank gently guides him down to his knees. “Keep me warm.”

For a second, Steve has no idea what he means, but then it clicks and he reddens. As he kneels he opens up Frank’s zipper and pulls out his flaccid cock. He lays his head on Frank’s inner thigh and then puts his thick cock in his mouth. He buries his face in Frank’s tuff of hair. The Ranger starts to read, one hand holding the book, the other stroking Steve. Staying this way, comforted by Frank’s nearness, by the rhythmic movement of his hand in Steve’s hair, by the presence of his ever stiffening cock on Steve’s tongue, brings a surprising peace to Steve’s unsettled nerves. 

All the anxiety through the days and nights, ensuring the safety of his people, he spent years denying himself, becoming a soldier to serve and protect the people ravaged by the wars and riots. Now, kneeling at the Ranger’s feet, servicing him felt not like a belittling moment but one that set Steve free. It releases the hardships and the stress, it takes away the irritations of the day, the complexity of their shattered world. Here, he becomes only this raw nerve being calmed by scarred hands as he supplicates himself.

He sucks and tastes and weighs the cock in his mouth. Its thick and stretches Steve’s mouth. As the time ticked by he falls asleep only to wake up to suckle again and Frank to lazily pump into his mouth. His mind grays out, the red of need and pain dissipating into the shadows. With the weight of Frank in his mouth, Steve leaves the aches of his life and body behind him. He concentrates on the flavor, the spice and tang of Frank. He memorizes the ridges and contours of his cock. He knows this is a fragment of time he will never have again. So he does what he can to still time and make it last forever.

But it can’t.

Frank grows harder, stretching Steve’s lips. Steve straightens and sucks more determinedly. Dropping the book on the desk, Frank reclines back and grasps Steve’s head. He groans as Steve works to bring him off, bobbing his head. The scent of Frank fills his nose. It’s too much and too little at the same time. His own cock throbs and hurts from its previous torment. He doesn’t want to come off again, it will hurt too much and not enough. Frank tugs at his hair, pulling too hard and Steve listens, obeys and concentrates on him. He lines the vein with his tongue, relaxing his throat so that Frank hits the back of his throat time and again. It stings and will bruise, but Steve invites it. Frank moves faster, pushing up into Steve’s mouth with a wild need. He rips at Steve’s hair, nails cutting grooves into the sides of Steve’s head. He’s close Steve can feel it, the tension in his thighs, the heaving pants, and then he stills as the flood hits the back of Steve’s throat. He gurgles but manages to swallow most of it as his eyes tear against his gag reflex. Frank drops back, settling on the chair. It takes a moment before he pets Steve again and then bends over to kiss Steve on the crown of his head. 

He stays curled around Steve, not allowing him to move or to adjust his position. Steve wants to kiss him, on the mouth, but Frank’s hands are strategically placed on his face so that Steve can’t move to meet his mouth. 

Eventually they have to move. Frank does so first, telling Steve to go to the bed on his knees. Steve listens. He waits for Frank. Steve’s cock is heavy between his legs, though he’s not sure he wants another orgasm. He sees the rope and bites at his lips. 

“Not now,” Frank says. He scoops up the rest of his clothes, his boots. He tucks himself back into his pants and zips closed. “Next time I come I’ll bring a cock cage. You can’t come again until I get back. I’ll bring the cage. Buckle you up real good so no one can touch you but me.”

The idea of being confined to a cock cage entices him and frightens him at the same time. How would he ever be able to move around the settlement, how could he perform his duties? 

Frank sits back down in the chair to tie his boots. After he finishes he stands over Steve, a rough hand cups his cheek then slides down to touch the cross on the chain around Steve’s neck. Steve’s cock twitches but hurts at the same time.

“Maybe I believed once. I don’t anymore. You shouldn’t either.” He tears the cross from Steve’s neck and that’s stops everything. Steve leaps to his feet and launches himself at Frank to retrieve the cross.

“That’s my mother’s,” Steve snaps and grabs for the necklace.

Frank’s fist is closed, tight. Part of the chain hangs from his hand. Steve knows at that moment he’s broken the rule. He was supposed to trust Frank. It was their unwritten contract. 

Frank drops the necklace. 

“Please,” Steve says and opens his empty hands to Frank. “It’s all I have left of her.” He’s losing Frank at that moment. Every hope skitters away. His erection is gone. He stares at the necklace and then bends down. Steve offers it to Frank. “It’s yours.” It hurts to give it away. It’s all he has that he cherishes. Tears burn his eyes.

Frank considers the glittering jewelry in the palm of Steve’s hand. He stares at it and, as he does, the world presses down on them. Steve hears every beat of his heart, every breath he struggles to take it. It’s harder now to breathe than it was when Frank choked him. 

Frank steps closer, clasps Steve’s hand, and then closed his fingers to cover the necklace. “You keep it for me.”

Steve shakes as he stands there. He feels cold as if he is going into shock. Frank kisses the side of his face. “Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t go,” Steve says and it sounds like a plaintive cry. He’s leaving and he won’t come back. Steve knows this – he saw the evidence of the violent road Frank travels all over his body.

Frank laughs but there’s no joy. “I gotta.” He points to the necklace. “You keep that for me. I’m coming back with that family and the lady. You’re going to take care of them.”

Steve blinks and wants to be selfish and tell him to just stay. Forget about obligations and duties, but he can’t say anything. He has to let him go. His fantasies of submission and release are just that fairy tales. He nods. “Good, good.” His voice steadies as he picks up his jeans. “We’re planning on going to the eastern plateau before we go back to the mountains for the winter.” He’s all business now. There’s no more of what they just were. Whatever that was.

Frank seizes his wrist and stops him from dressing. “Not now.” He holds on until Steve drops the clothes. Frank grabs his shoulder, fingers pressing into his flesh. “I want to crawl inside of you and never come out.” His dark eyes search Steve’s face as if there’s some way to do just that. “You’ll fucking ruin me.”

Frank ravages his mouth, kisses him until his knees weakened and he’s dizzy for air. When he steps away, they are both panting. Tears are in Frank’s eyes. “Don’t you fucking get yourself killed. You understand me?” When Steve doesn’t immediately answer, Frank screams. “You understand me?”

“Yes,” Steve says. They’re both ruined. They’ve wrecked each other somehow today. They started out fighting but they both lost the battle. 

Frank leaves then without looking back, without another word. Steve sinks to his bundle of blankets, the smell of Frank heavy in the air. Steve’s body aches. He opens up his hand to look at the cross. It’s made an impression on his palm, a shadow of what was. He lifts the cross to his lips and kisses it, then fixes the chain. He puts it on, the weight a reminder of hopes and wishes. Of promises kept and vows made. He made a promise today, though he never said it. He promised to survive, to live another day in this hell. He promised to endure. 

He walks to the window and peers out at the landscape. The day is almost done. The colors of a deep purple bruise color the sky. There are bruises on Steve’s body. Someone knocks on the door. He calls for them to wait and quickly slips on his clothes. When he opens the door he finds Natasha and Sam. They look him over. There are marks on his body, on his head, and face, and neck.

Sam eyes him. Natasha looks away as if to steady her response. He’s not in the mood for a lecture. He’s about to tell them when Sam says, “If he hurts you and you need help, you come to us. You don’t do it alone. You understand?”

So many people are protecting him. Helping him. He never knew he wasn’t alone. Isn’t alone. “I understand.”

Natasha nods more to herself than to them. “Good. Good.”

“Come on. Let’s get something to eat,” Sam says. He starts away and Natasha focuses on the marks on Steve’s neck.

“I’ll kill him if he hurts you,” she says.

They start toward the food trailer. Steve wishes he’d brought his sunglasses even with the sun settling in the west. “Yeah, I know.”

“Do you?” Natasha measures his response with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Yeah, I do.” But his eyes are on the horizon where he spots a lone figure with a long duster coat and an assault rifle at his side. Steve knows. He knows the truth and that truth will ruin them all.

TBC?

**Author's Note:**

> More? Yes or no? You can follow me on my tumblr - go there an look for winterstar95 - Thanks for reading. 
> 
> I left this with the possibilities of multiple chapters or I could just leave it here. Up to you!


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